From Russia With Love
by Junetis
Summary: When Alex Rider is dumped back in school, he's hoping it'll be for a good long while this time. However, normality starts to pall.... but even Alex couldn't predict where this latest mission would take him... Will be Alex-Yassen SLASH!


I've read a lot of fic in this fandom (not that there is much! I want there to be so much more, people!) and most of it is just Mary Sues galore. And the rest of it is rampant plagiarism! How many fics do you NEED where Alex goes to live with Wolf - and why in god's name would he live with Wolf ANYway!? And training with the SAS? Please.

I might try my hands at these cliches later, just to see how well I can do them.

But here is my first attempt at an AR fic. Hope you like it and it's not too horrifically cliched!

Disclaimer: Alex Rider belongs to Anthony Horowitz. Not that he's doing much with him.

* * *

Two weeks, three days and seven hours. That was how long it had been since Alex Rider had been rescued from his last mission, and dumped, unceremoniously, back into normality.

Two weeks, three days and seven hours.

Alex yawned, and stretched back in his chair, as double Geography went straight over his head. At first normality had been bliss: enjoying football, school, friends, and the lack of criminal masterminds, Alex had settled back quickly into the average boy's routine.

Since then, however, he'd got restless. After the initial glow of ordinariness, he'd discovered, with a feeling of dismay, that he found his life before MI6, well… monotonous was such a harsh word. Sometimes, Alex almost wished that a call from The Royal and General Bank would come through. Almost.

"Can you answer that question, Alex?"

Ah. Oh dear. The teacher was looking less than pleased.

"I can't, sir."

A vein in the teacher's temple twitched. The boy had become insufferable since he'd come back. And to think he'd hoped that severe illness would help the boy appreciate learning. Hope was futile.

"I see. Russia holds no interest for you, does it? You find blizzards, ice-storms and rapid climate change beneath you? What, may I ask, will you do if you _do _get caught in a blizzard?"

The boy stared back at him, sullenly.

"I think it's less than likely that I'll be going to Russia – or anywhere – any time soon, sir."

"Quite," the teacher responded sharply. "But, just in case you do – or perhaps to prevent you doing so – you will be joining me in detention for two hours tomorrow evening after school, just to catch up on what you missed. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

The teacher met Alex's dark, level eyes, and scowled.

"As I was saying, climate in Russia, especially in the east towards Siberia, can change rapidly…"

The teacher was stopped in mid-flow by a rap on the door. His face going an attractive shade of puce, he roared:

"Come in!"

Miss Bedfordshire, the usual secretary, was away, and had been replaced by a mouse wearing glasses. Or so it seemed.

"So sorry to interrupt…"

"All right, just come in!"

Alex Rider and timid secretaries all in one afternoon. Lord help him.

"There's a call for an Alexander Rider?" The mouse looked nervously around the class. "His aunt's on the phone for him."

Alex looked at the teacher, calmly.

"Can I go, sir?"

"Oh, go away," muttered the teacher, ungraciously.

* * *

The secretary had to take three steps to keep up with Alex's strides, and as a result was almost trotting. She looked up at the silent boy beside her. He was tall for a fourteen year old, she reflected, but didn't have the out-of-proportion gangliness of the rest of his class-mates. Good-looking, too. But serious. Very, very serious. His eyes looked far too old for his age. Maybe that was the result of all the illnesses he'd had. His file was full of them.

Feeling she had to make conversation, she squeaked:

"Are you very close to your aunt, then?"

Alex stared down at the tiny woman somewhere around his shoulder. Her eyes, through her glasses, were magnified to an astonishing degree. She looked rather like a bat.

"I don't have an aunt," he replied, levelly, then could have kicked himself. This was not Miss Bedfordshire he was talking to!

The secretary looked bewildered.

"But – I was told that there was a Mrs Jones, calling for Alexander Rider, her nephew. I'm sure that's right. Let me check."

"No – no, you're right!" Alex said, hastily. "I was just joking. Ha, ha," he ended feebly.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic; how had he forgotten that one, basic rule? Always go along with what's said. Never contradict. Not without concrete evidence that they're trying to trick you, and if you're not sure, just keep silent – and why would this harmless, timid, slightly strange woman be trying to trick him? She was hardly the type to be an agent from Scorpia. In any case, the bat looked convinced, and beamed at him.

"I thought so! I don't generally make mistakes! So, are you close to your auntie, then?"

Alex sighed. "My 'Auntie' and I get along just fine." His tone was far from inviting further questioning.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Alex?" It was Mrs Jones, then. This could not be good. Alex's eyes narrowed, and he snapped back:

"What do you want?" Behind him, he heard the bat-mouse gasp at his rudeness.

"Ah, hello, Alex. How are you?"

"Enjoying my life!" Alex said, through clenched teeth. "What's the matter?"

"I need you to do something for me, Alex."

"You mean for MI6, of course," he responded, sarcastically. Another gasp, and he sighed._ Oh, for heaven's sake…_

"Of course," Mrs Jones said, calmly. He could almost see the raised eyebrows.

"Well, I'm not going to do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to." He hated how childish it sounded.

"This isn't a question of whether you want to, Alex. How is Jack? I haven't seen her since we brought you back to London."

Alex sank into a chair, and took the phone away from his ear a moment. A month was all he asked for. No… not a month. A lifetime without MI6 breathing down his neck would be great. But blackmail was blackmail. Unless he wanted to lose the life he knew, the life which he could live without waiting for the bullets to start flying, he'd toe the line. Waving goodbye to that life again for the time being, he picked up the phone again.

"What is it, then?"

"Well," said Mrs Jones, sounding business-like. "I won't tell you many details – you won't need them."

"Why not?"

"Because they're not necessary on this mission."

"But I always have some form of information when I go on a trip." Alex spoke slowly and carefully, as though talking to someone slightly dim.

"Well, you won't need any on this one!" she said, with ominous cheerfulness. "You'll like it, Alex."

"Will I?" His voice fairly dripped sarcasm.

"It's very, very short. As in two or three days, short."

"I'm listening. Under duress, but I'm listening."

"All you have to do is bring back a briefcase from a location. That's all we're asking this time. We feel you've earned a break."

"This is a break?"

"Yes."

"And you've developed this compassion from… where?"

"MI6 is not a wholly heartless entity, Alex."

"Could have fooled me." He muttered.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Nothing." He paused, licked his lips, and said, slowly. "So… you think I've earned this – break, did you call it?"

"We do. You won't even need three days for this one, including the journey. We've arranged some sight-seeing for you, and a guide from our equivalents over there. You'll be properly looked after. Nothing can go wrong."

_How many times have I heard that? _thought Alex.

"Three days?"

"Yes."

"Just to pick up a briefcase?"

"Yes."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"Right." He said, with perfect composure. "So – where am I going to?"

"Russia."

"You've got to be kidding!"

It was in that instant that Alex Rider, superspy and schoolboy, decided that his life was, indeed, a soap opera.

* * *

He saw no reason to abandon this conclusion over the next day. An agent – typically dour and unsmiling, both characteristics which Alex was beginning to think were pre-requisites for applying to MI6 for a job – appeared at his house, briefed him more fully, handed over the 'weapons' which MI6 had seen fit to give him through Smithers, told him his travel arrangements and who would be meeting him, told him about his alias, and left.

Alex palmed the "bouncy ball" which was one of his gadgets, slowly tossing it from hand to hand.

"It's a bomb." He whispered, trying to convince himself. "It's not just a child's toy. It's a bomb."

The bouncy ball was, as the note from Smithers explained , 'special'. '_You'll know by now that all these things are, dear boy. The ball works on a heat process. Hold it in one hand for five minutes – for long enough for it to warm up to body temperature. Then throw it to the ground. The heat, combined with the force, will detonate the bomb. None of us at MI6 anticipate you needing it, old chap, but it's so nice to be prepared for these things…"_

Alex smiled, a little grimly, surveying the other objects which were supposed to protect him from all the people who would inevitably be trying to kill him during his 'two day' mission.

A watch with a location sensor in it – useful, but not for him. Night vision glasses; again, useful, but if he got into a situation where he really needed them, chances were he wasn't going to have a chance to put them on. Couple of pens with different functions.

No gun. Of course.

His alias was so complicated, and came with so many pieces of paraphernalia to make it realistic, Alex was starting to get worried; it seemed like MI6 was worried enough to make sure that his new identity was completely foolproof. And if they were going to such lengths, it meant that there was something to be worried about, which meant that Alex was, once again, being left out of the loop. He sighed, and turned to the new bag he'd been given, and all the things he had to include – the "Learn Russian in two weeks" CDs and books, the clothes he was supposed to have worn, bought by parents he'd never met, the books he was supposed to have read on subject he didn't take, right down to the homework he was supposed to be doing for teachers he'd never met. The last time he'd had an alias this complete was during his time with Scorpia. What was it that MI6 wasn't telling him this time?

Sighing, Alex heard Jack yelling for him, and zipped up his sports bag, then headed downstairs.

"You're going on one of your missions again, aren't you?"

Alex shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I'm sorry." He apologised, quickly. "I, er… I didn't have much of a choice."

She gave him a Look, and Alex hung his head.

* * *

There it is! Criticism much appreciated; but only if your grammar is good! How can you criticise MY grammar when your own is appalling.

Thanks!

Junetis


End file.
